


coda

by soltvde



Series: encore [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Healing, M/M, Nightmares, Past Torture, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, anyway you don't really need to have read the first part to follow this one, how do people tag things without giving away the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soltvde/pseuds/soltvde
Summary: Ask me, he wants to say. But he doesn’t, so he casts a half-hearted notice-me-not charm around them instead, only to hold the hand still sitting on his chest. He presses a kiss to its knuckles, then another and another until there’s a blush blooming high on Credence’s cheeks. Only then does he let go.Or— Credence and Graves, one year later.





	

**Author's Note:**

> as always thank you to natas a.k.a. the light of my life for all the much-needed emotional support

Numbing pain spreads through his veins, writhing around tendons and sinews and brittle bones until it’s as if his fingertips are on fire, until every muscle is tense to the point of bursting.

The worst thing about the Cruciatus curse, Graves has bitterly learned, is the suddenness of its end: not the impact, not the torture, however long it goes on. He does not know how long it’s been; weeks, months, eons. After a while the pain is not what it feigns to be in the beginning. It’s synthetic, he knows, and once you internalize that you can resist, nearly ignore it. He braces for the beam of the curse crashing into his chest, and white noise fills his ears, almost comforting, definitely aggravating.

But when it ends— it pierces through him like a no-maj bullet, leaves him breathless, choking and desperately drawing for air. His motor functions need time to recover, he’s not the rookie he once was, back on his feet quick as lightning. No, hidden away in an unassuming closet in 1926, the grey at his temples is suddenly not the only thing reminding him that even Percival Graves, heir of one of the Twelve, Director of—

Usually, when Grindelwald decides that it’s time to play, he does not award Graves enough time to finish his train of thought.

White noise, again. It whirrs and whistles in his head, and Graves welcomes it. His body grants him flashing images of faded memories every once in awhile; the uncharacteristically messy stack of books on his nightstand, a harsh winter breeze sweeping through the woods; trembling, broken hands, pale but warm to the touch, and the echo of a hitched breath as Graves’ thumb brushes over them. But he always pushes them away, paranoid as ever, as comforting as the memories might be.

 _Crucio_ , Grindelwald hisses again, baring Graves’ own teeth back at him, fingers curling tighter around his wand, just for the sake of watching Graves jolt with anticipation. He doesn’t hear his own screams anymore.

_Crucio._

_Crucio._

_Crucio._

He laughs, more like the howl of a wolf than anything considered human, and it echoes, echoes through the narrow space they’re cowering in, echoes through Graves’ head, ricocheting around his memories, tainting everything dark, dark, dark—

 

* * *

 

It’s still dark when he wakes up.

The mattress is soft, not unrelenting and solid like the floor of his prison, but he’s drenched in cold sweat, his twitching legs tangled up in clammy sheets. He struggles free, gasps for breath in the midst of panic taking hold of his body.

Moonlight filters through a gap in the curtains, and Graves focuses on the stripe of pale blue light on his wall. _It’s not real_ , he repeats to himself, weakly breathing in, air rattling in his lungs. The taste of bile sours his throat; the jug of water on his desk across the room threatens to drop once— twice— when Graves summons it.

The cold liquid is his first reprieve. The second is the realization that he is not alone: a heap of blankets next to him, rising and falling, and the third— the rustling of sheets, the body hidden beneath rousing slowly, until unruly raven-black hair pokes out from underneath. The beating of Graves’ heart calms, the water stops sloshing in its jug where Graves is still clutching it tight.

“Graves,” it comes quietly from the other side of the bed, Credence’s voice quiet and rough from his slumber all at once. Graves sets the water on his nightstand, slips down the headboard until they’re nose to nose, and he can watch Credence unsuccessfully try and blink the sleep out of his eyes.

“Go back to sleep, I didn’t want to wake you up,” he murmurs into the skin of Credence’s neck, though he knows that, selfishly, he needed him to; needed his sleepy voice, broad hands habitually seeking contact, graceless with the weight of sleep still clinging to his bones. The skin beneath Graves’ fingertips feels soft, warm to the touch, fine hairs standing up like a trail his fingers leave behind. Credence smells like comfort and soap, and suddenly Graves is drowning for an entirely different reason, in his scent and the arm lazily thrown around his shoulders, tightening its hold now; drowning in the sheer fact that Credence is _here_ , in this moment, for reasons Graves is still struggling to understand.

He tucks the sheets back tight around them, right under their chins, and loses himself in the brush of skin on skin, warm and familiar, Credence’s hand rubbing along his shoulder.

“What happened,” Credence asks, muffled as he presses his lips to Graves’ temple in a comforting kiss.

“Nothing,” Graves lies. “Sleep,” he says again.

Grindelwald’s ghost is still pathetically lurking in the corner, laughing soundlessly, its mere presence a walking, wordless accusation. Purple eyes glint in the dark, but the rest of him is all Graves, dark hair slicked back, fine clothes impeccable, standing tall and confident.

“Tell me in the morning,” Credence whispers, already drifting off back to sleep, his lips brushing against Graves’ hairline when he speaks. It’s a welcome distraction, and Graves gently drags Credence’s limp body impossibly closer until he’s almost enveloped.

He can feel Credence’s pulse beating against the inside of his skin like this, slowing and soothing; waits for their hearts to beat in unison, waits until there is nothing left hiding in the corner of his eye, waits for Credence’s breathing to even out. Only then does he let himself raise his head and think, all guards up.

His dreams had gotten better recently; still worse than he could have ever imagined, even after twenty years on the job, but— easier to ignore, less frequent. Less violent. Less— indescribably horrific.

Stray remnants of a phantom pain jerk through him like a reminder of the lie he’s telling himself. His leg starts shaking again, lightly but noticeable all the same. The pain is ignored in favour of Credence, lying still but so _alive_ , lips parted ever so slightly, his hair spread out on the pillow like a halo.

Then, the gentle winter breeze rattling against the window;

A girl’s shrill laugh from the street down below, muffled quickly by the deep voice of a man;

The shadow of a bird on the wall, disrupting the shine of the moon— sitting on Graves’ windowsill, cleaning its wing. It flies away, unaware of having been watched at all.

Credence’s skin, pale and smooth, tinted light blue from the moon and curtains. His eyelashes, fluttering; he’s dreaming, Graves realizes, and watches with wonder. It’s something so mundane, and yet it fills a void in Graves’ heart where before was only darkness. It’s selfish, he knows, he _knows_ ; but he is not to blame, he thinks.

Grindelwald is but a shadow in his periphery, now. When Graves turns his head towards the corner of the room, there is nothing but a dark haze.

With fingers splaying across Credence’s waist, wishing to hold him entirely, a restless sleep comes for Graves. There are no screams, no splatters of blood. Just smoke, all-consuming, expanding as if it were breathing in, then out again. Graves does not know where he is; only that the smoke is waiting. A mirror of his own body appears at the end of the space they’re in— the smoke twirls in the air, growing anxious, and then, in the beat of a second, going rogue. Like it would in a tug of war, it leaps between the bodies, back and forth, wisps of it extending further and further like arms, surrounding them both. The Graves across from him twitches where he hovers, brows furrowed, scowling in something akin to fear. It does not fit his face, as if it doesn’t belong.

Graves realizes that it does not. He himself is calm, even as the smoke retreats, focusing on the other man until he is consumed entirely by darkness.

 

* * *

 

He is woken up by Credence slowly getting out from under the covers. Mindlessly, Graves reaches out his hand to seek warm skin, and he finds Credence’s hand, entwines their fingers. He almost tugs him back into bed, but even half-asleep he knows better.

Credence goes back in for a kiss anyway, strokes his hand across the stubble on Graves’ cheek.

 

* * *

 

Why he ever dared to hope that Credence would forget about the night is a mystery. Observant, beautiful Credence, always noticing, cataloguing, _caring_.

It’s a nice day, objectively; the morning sun is pouring in, casting shadows across the floor. But among the shapes of plants and lines of window muntins on the dark wood, Credence is wearing nothing but woollen socks — yellow and black like a bee; a gift from Scamander, probably — and the view of pale legs, warm and adorably comfortable, outdoes any ray of sun. Credence pads through the room without a single noise, almost dances in his careful grace. His shirt— _Graves’_ shirt— too large and worn to really fit, reveals a slender shoulder, the line of a collarbone.

And Graves knows he’s staring, standing still and leaning against the doorframe, basking in the warmth filling his chest, but for once he doesn’t allow himself to feel guilt.

Credence sneaks back towards him, awards him with a smile and a kiss and a steaming mug of coffee, and _Merlin_ , Graves almost forgets about the dreams or the ache in his leg— chases after Credence’s lips like a lovesick teenager, but at Credence’s smile, wide and so, so true, he thinks, _how could anyone blame me_.

The smell of coffee alone helps him wake up. It’s a vice he is not willing to give up, no matter the times Credence suggests tea instead, with herbs, because _they’ll help you calm_ —

No. Coffee and he, it’s an ardent affair; and he loves telling Credence as much, if only to see his playful pout, mocking and childish, and the pretend-scowl he still has to learn to refine. Graves might teach him. He has been told he’s quite good at it, after all.

But now, there is no jest in Credence’s eyes: only kindness, understanding. It’s the face he makes when he’s about to ask _something_ , eyebrows drawn and the corners of his lips quirked up, and as much as Graves is glad that Credence has learned to speak his mind, to initiate, to request without fear; as much as he loves it, in moments like these, where the only thing he wants is to be a broken man left in peace, he secretly dreads it, too.

So he steels himself, trains his face into a tired nonchalance, and waits.

“Did you have nightmares again?” it comes, tentatively, because Credence _knows_ how much he does not want to talk, and Graves does not look up. His coffee twirls hypnotically, so he stares into its abyss.

The thing is: he can get used to it. It’s been a year— he endures. The pain in his laughably broken body could be worse; the dreams could be worse. Merlin knows they could be. They were, for a long while.

The other thing, however, is: he’s lying to himself. He’s good at it, has always been. That admission alone is enough self-reflection already; lying is easier. Nobody has to know, that he’s a coward, that he’s scared, that—

Graves’ grip on the mug tightens, and he raises his head. Seeks Credence’s warmth, again; lets the comfort seep into his skin and bones. He bites his bottom lip, dry from the cold winter outside, tastes coffee and lingering toothpaste.

He nods.

But before Credence can ask if he wants to talk about it, Graves pre-emptively shakes his head, waves it off with a tired hand. He is glad to find no pity in Credence’s eyes.

“It’s all foggy,” he adds as an afterthought, finishes the discussion before it can start. It’s a half-lie, he thinks, remembering the cloud of smoke hovering in a room with no walls. The perfect compromise between two quarrelling ends of his sad excuse of a conscience.

Graves has never claimed that he’s a good man.

He takes another sip of his coffee, too hasty for his own good, only to distract himself from how much he detests that thought. Silently, he winces through the scalding heat.

Credence looks at him through his lashes, and Graves knows he knows that he’s lying. _One day_ , he says to himself. _One day you’ll tell him_. And Graves wants, he does. The truth is vigorously tugging at his vocal cords, but something holds him back, something stronger, something rooted so deep within he hasn’t figured out how to reach it quite yet.

“Shall we do something today?” he asks into their shared silence, not quite comfortable but familiar enough to ignore for now, dispersing the Grindelwald-shaped elephant in the middle of the room.

In wordless response, Credence sets down his cup and rummages through a stack of papers in the seat next to him, nimble fingers skimming through playbills and outdated newspapers and letters from Goldstein, until he holds up three small leaflets for him to choose from. Without reading, Graves points to the one on the far right.

That’s settled, then.

 _One day_ , a far-away voice inside Graves reminds him.

 

* * *

 

Objectively, it may be a nice day; but Graves struggles to appreciate more than tiny, insignificant details. In the end it’s always a whiff of Credence’s shampoo, the small cluster of moles right underneath the line of his jaw, the occasional brush of their fingers as they walk; close enough to feel each other’s presence, but far enough away that passers-by won’t— well.

The gloomy concrete landscape with its looming towers and steel beams wears on his mind, Graves realizes. Static images of meadows and clearings flare up in his memory, green and yellow and anything but grey: they’re so long gone and far away that they could very well belong to a different man, a different life.

He thinks of an empty manor bearing his name somewhere miles and miles away, as beautiful as it is lifeless, and wonders whether Credence has ever thought of leaving the city. Perhaps not _there_. Even Graves is man enough to admit he isn’t ready. Somewhere else, then, maybe the mountains, or Niagara Falls, or the Arizona desert, the part Scamander never shuts up about—

Suddenly, there’s an arm pushed to his chest and holding him back from walking further; then, a man on the sidewalk next to him, glaring, mumbling to himself.

Credence’s hand lingers for a second longer, pushes gently. A reminder, Graves knows. _I’m here_. Graves smiles and sees Credence holding back the question, and his heart breaks. He doesn’t know what’s worse: being asked, _what’s going on with you_ , a question he’s been trying not to find the answer to for over a year, or knowing Credence feels even the glimmer of a need to repress anything in his presence, _because_ of him, anything at all.

Scratch that: he does know what’s worse. _Ask me_ , he wants to say.

But he doesn’t, so he casts a half-hearted notice-me-not charm around them instead, only to hold the hand still sitting on his chest. He presses a kiss to its knuckles, then another and another until there’s a blush blooming high on Credence’s cheeks. Only then does he let go.

 

* * *

 

It’s the evenings spent at home that become Graves’ sanctuary.

He still remembers the long nights spent at the office, sometimes, watching colleague after colleague leave, pretending not to notice the pitiful glances sent his way, if anyone dared. There was something calm about those nights, something liminal, almost unreal. Quiet, save for an elf or two scurrying through the rows of desks, going silent when they noticed he was still there.

Truth is, he used to completely forget the time, poring over case files and staring at boards cramped with photos and newspaper clippings, but he belonged. His mind was clear, and he was alive, always reaching, always achieving. He can still smell the dusty air, cold but pleasant in its familiarity.

But this— it’s everything the office tried to be but wasn’t. There’s something gently pressing against the inside of his chest, warm and comforting, when the room is almost dark, bathed only in the light of a tiny lamp at the end of the couch. It’s a different kind of quiet, a different kind of alive. His heart is slow, pulse not trying to chase itself with the thrill of a new case, though occasionally skipping a beat; when Credence huffs out a quiet laugh, or they catch each other’s eyes, and he smiles.

That night they’re on the couch with only their feet touching, Graves reading, Credence writing… something, and it’s ridiculous, really, how much Graves loves it. The book lying forgotten next to Credence on the couch, the shadows cast across his face, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth (the excitement makes him think it’s a letter to Scamander; the hint of mischief points towards Goldstein, the younger. But Graves does not ask, content with letting it remain a mystery); stray curls of hair falling into his eyes, eyes glowing with the warmth Graves feels mirrored in himself.

He folds up his newspaper, because he doesn’t have to kid anyone and pretend he’s actually reading it, and reaches for the almost-forgotten glass of firewhiskey instead. Settles for shutting off all thoughts but those of high cheekbones and full lips, though he tries not to let his mind wander too far, like to the burn of the whiskey being licked off his lips—

The little stab in his gut is ignored when it hits, but it grows into a nagging heat seeping into his limbs, a weight pulling at his eyelids, and it’s not the whiskey.

He waits until Credence pauses writing to annoy him. Their feet are resting almost on top of one another, and it’s so wonderfully inviting to nudge them until Credence pulls away slightly. It’s lazy, because Graves is tired and already half-asleep, but he loves seeing this face too much: lips parted in mock disbelief, an almost-smirk, eyebrows shooting upwards. Oh, how he loves it: he nudges further, waits for a frustrated huff, and chuckles under his breath when it comes.

Credence is almost fully pressed into the corner of the couch when he starts retaliating, pushing back and tickling the soles of Graves’ feet. It’s a dirty trick and he knows it, too.

So Graves takes the glass of whiskey from where it rests on his chest back to the table and sits up, because— what Credence wants, he gets. Graves’ fingers start teasing at his knees, light as a feather but ever so promising, down his thighs to his hips and his waist, where Graves has to bend his back to reach properly; their faces are closer together like this, and it’s perfect, looking into Credence’s eyes then.

They kiss, more a peck on the corner of each other’s lips at first, and Credence unfolds his legs to let Graves fall in between. He holds himself up by his elbows on the armrest and lets his lips graze Credence’s again, lightly, just to tease, and because he does not want to close his eyes just yet.

It’s more real that way: touch can be too much or not enough, the sensation alone able to make him question reality, to make him wonder if it could be another game, another elaborate scheme.

But Credence’s deep eyes, the blush painting his skin shades of pale pink, the rasp of stubble on his jaw at night, his bones not sticking out as much as before, that’s real.

The ghost’s soul is too ugly to procure something so graceful.

Their noses bumping together, their eyes meeting, their lips pressing together as softly as Graves is willing to allow himself; his hands, wrapped tight around Credence’s frame, holding him close — he could fall asleep like this, he thinks. He could.

 

* * *

 

It’s an up-and-down, like the tide of the sea.

If Grindelwald is his moon, still pulling at Graves’ strings from behind ten brick walls and across an ocean, appearing at night and flooding his dreams and restless waking hours with unwanted waves of agony, then Credence is his sun, or perhaps his beacon in the dead of night, his blinding light outshining in a battle for attention with the force up high in the sky.

But sometimes it’s as little as a piece of parchment that gets under Graves’ skin, and it can only get worse from there.

M A C U S A,

it says in the letterhead, bold letters flanked by the wide expanding wings of a bird, and Graves feels his blood run cold. He recognizes Seraphina’s neat scrawl on the page immediately, and the envelope, torn open and frayed at the edge, lies abandoned on the floor.

 _Dear Percival—_ , he reads, and that’s about as far as he gets before dropping the letter into his lap, before pressing the palms of his hands so tightly against his eyes that he begins seeing tiny white specks dance in the darkness.

He hears Credence approach but still recoils when his shoulder is touched. There’s a sharp intake of breath — because of course Credence is still skittish, why doesn’t Graves _think_ — and a skip of Graves’ heart in return, but he lets his hands fall to his lap next to the letter, beckons Credence back before he can think to leave.

“I’m sorry,” Graves croaks weakly, reaches for his hand and tugs him close to show that it’s alright to touch, and hides his face in the soft, thick wool covering Credence’s stomach. Breathes in, slowly, revels in gentle fingers combing through his hair. He does not want to know what he looks like, does not want to see it mirrored in Credence’s eyes. It’s an easy way of evading reality for this one sacred moment, buried in Credence’s presence, his fingers sneaking underneath the sweatshirt to seek skin and hold on.

The spell is partly broken when Credence gently disentangles himself and kneels down between Graves’ legs, hands moving from the nape of his neck to cup his jaw, and looks up into his eyes. There is a gentleness in his features that still makes Graves wonder; how Credence, with all the hardships and violent history of his youth, with the inherent struggle set deep in his bones, can still find kindness in his soul, and the strength to share it.

“Only because I share it doesn’t mean I have to give any of it up for myself,” he’d answer if Graves asked.

But he, again, does not. He selfishly accepts it, all of what Credence is willing to give; and right then, with his head hung low between his shoulders, intangible dread flowing through his veins, he is eternally grateful for the boy at his feet, so dangerous and growing and beautiful.

He kisses him because he doesn’t know how else to say it.

Silence is a common thread between them, he has realized. Not the kind that leaves a bitter taste in their mouths, but one of comfort, of knowing when it is silence they need, not words. Not right away; later, perhaps, when the tide has gone out.

Credence kisses back, simply, and it’s not sparks that light up in Graves heart, not a stirring low in his gut, only warmth spreading from his ribs to his fingertips, and his hand moves up to Credence’s shoulder, habitual, comforting. _Thank you_ , he hopes it says. When he moves away, Credence settles down and crosses his legs right there on the floor, leaning his head on Graves’ knee, and the mere sight: messy curls, a tender smile, for _him_ , relieves the tension somewhat, letting him slump back into the cushions.

Graves messes up his locks even further in mirror of what Credence has done a minute ago, and watches as he carefully takes the letter from Graves’ lap. His face is void of any reaction as he reads it, and for a minute Graves is glad.

“You want me to read it to you?” Credence murmurs, barely breaking the quietness that has settled in the room.

Graves thinks— it can’t be worse than the letter he received a year ago, he knows. But it is unusual for Seraphina to write: too formal for them, too few and far between, too foreshadowing of imminent doom. It’s been a long while that they spoke, back when Graves stepped foot into the Woolworth building for the very last time. It’s an ugly memory, one of many. Sometimes he wishes he could only recall the twirl of a purple dress and her curiously tame hand reaching out for him; not the back of her headdress retreating quickly into a dark hallway, an accusation in itself, her grace emanating as it always has.

Whatever force could ever manage to persuade Seraphina and make her let go of a grudge, Graves wants nothing to do with; he cannot think of a more reasonably pleasant reason for the letter.

Credence, still perched between his legs, raises an eyebrow in wait, apprehensive and almost amused, holds up the letter like a peace offering.

“Not now,” Graves replies, and takes the piece of parchment out of Credence’s hands.

He’s not going to read it, he decides.

 

* * *

 

Heavy winds are making tree limbs and weak shrubs whip helplessly through the air the day Graves actually decides to leave New York.

They’d just come home from a trip to the bookstore, both settling down with a new-found treasure in their hands, when there’s a knock on the front door, quick but confident, and Graves has his guard down enough to forget to wonder who it is. He regrets it the moment he gets a glimpse of her, majestic and utterly out of place in the dark hallway of his apartment building.

“Sera,” Graves blurts out in surprise before his throat ties itself into a knot. His hold on the door handle tightens. Not much time has passed since the letter came, but really, if there’s one thing he’s become good at it’s avoiding responsibilities, and forgetting about their nagging reminders.

Now, though, the reminder is right there in front of him, impossible to turn a blind eye to: Seraphina’s hands hidden in her trousers’ pockets in a show of casual nonchalance (though it’s never a show — she owns the ground she walks on, and everyone knows it), shoulders held high, radiating confidence. The two locks of hair strategically peeking out from underneath her headdress aren’t blonde anymore, but dyed light purple. It suits her, Graves thinks before anything else registers, before he remembers he’s supposed to remain detached. Before he remembers that they haven’t seen each other in a year.

When Seraphina remains still save for arching one eyebrow, Graves realizes he’s been motionlessly staring at her for just one uncomfortable moment too long. He doesn’t bother asking her what she wants just yet: she’s here, and she’s going to come in whether he likes it or not. That first step she takes over his threshold makes something shift in the air, something deeper than magic.

It’s eerily quiet save for their footsteps on the wooden floor echoing through the room, and suddenly Graves’ heart is beating out of his chest, almost drowning out everything else. He regrets letting her in the moment Seraphina sets foot in the living room, catching sight of Credence and Graves’ entire life laid out bare for her to see.

“Mr. Barebone,” she says, stoically, always the President. There’s a hint of softness in her features when she nods in his direction, nothing but a slight arc to her eyebrows that’s not usually there, and you’d have to know about it to notice in the first place. Graves does; but Credence is visibly trying not to cower where he sits under her scrutiny, the pink flush on his cheeks from the cold outside drained completely, holding his book up to his chest in the remnants of instinctual self-defense. He relaxes slightly when Graves smiles at him from behind Seraphina’s back and leads her towards the kitchen nook.

“It looks different here,” she observes while politely looking around the room, as if it hasn’t been years since she’d last dropped by, as if this is nothing but a visit of courtesy.

 _Now you notice a difference?_ Graves’ spiteful side wants to ask, but he holds himself back. He sets a glass of water on the table instead, its contents almost splashing over the edge with his demonstrative force, and Seraphina does not touch it.

The curtains flutter ominously in the wind sneaking its way inside through a small open window. Graves grabs his wand and snaps it closed.

“Why are you here?” he asks when the silence and her gaze become unbearable.

“Did you get my letter?” she confronts him in return, annoyance bleeding into her words. But Graves thinks of the piece of parchment hastily stuffed between two old issues of the _New York Ghost_ , and says,

“No.”

Seraphina only huffs, pretends not to detect the lie.

“If you had,” she says, sending an incredulous look in his direction, “you would know that I am offering you a position as Senior Advisor at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Her words remain hanging in the air, waiting to be picked up, but Graves can only stare. A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up in his chest, but before it can fight its way up he swallows, desperately searching for something to say. After a second, in which he hopes his lips have not parted in disbelief, Seraphina speaks up again.

“Come back, Percival,” and her voice is almost gentle, almost. Inquiring, not demanding. She’s bracing herself on twenty years of a rocky friendship, but a close one nonetheless.

“It must really be bad over there, huh,” he says finally. It’s vicious but the only thing he comes up with, and he does not know what to feel when her face hardens. It’s the same expression on her face as the one she had when he resigned, in the middle of the entrance hall of MACUSA. It’s the moment the walls go up in her head, carefully trained for years. Graves tries not to care.

“You are still the best Auror I have ever worked with,” she concludes. It’s matter-of-fact, no hint of emotion, her voice unwavering.

“I was,” he tells her. “I _was_. It’s been a year. I’m content where I am now.”

It’s matter-of-fact, too, and as far as he is willing to go. He doesn’t want to admit that it was one of the most difficult things he’s ever done to learn how to trust again; does not want to rehash a year-old argument, one that hurt deep in his bones.

“Don’t be so childish,” she sneers, finally letting something other than indifference show on her face, looking up towards the ceiling as if praying for help. “You worked for this for decades, Percival. I was there. Do you really want to give all of it up because—”

She trails off, realizing what she’s about to say when a trace of hurt flickers across Graves’ face. Still, she carries on, calmer than before. She’s never been one to simply trail off and then leave it. He doesn’t really hold it against her — it is one of the reasons why she’s the President now, never backing off, always holding her own. He used to be better at dealing with it.

“Because of what happened? A year ago?”

Her voice booms through the room, level and terrifying, but it has never worked on Graves. He looks her in the eye, but doesn’t ask: what is the expiration date for scars that you can’t see, doesn’t say: when I see myself I still see him sometimes, or, _please let me forget_.

The echo of a curse directed at his back, a gentle reminder of _what happened_ , almost makes his knees buckle, more by association than by its level of pain, and he knows that Seraphina sees the way he flinches.

“Maybe you’re a stronger woman than I am a man,” he says instead, giving her the compliment she couldn’t care less about, and hoping it implies all the things he does not want to spell out; but his point comes across, he sees. Her eyes are calculating, looking for one last path of persuasion.

“What would your family think if they knew?” she asks, and with it she stoops lower than her worth should allow.

Graves does not tell her what he believes his great-grandfather would think about this farce of a situation, only sucks in a frustrated breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he says. The mere thought of returning, of recognizing the scorch marks and destruction left in Grindelwald’s wake everywhere he goes, of looking into the eyes of his colleagues and having to live with their fabricated sorrow, or worse, their genuine guilt, for the rest of his career leaves an acidic taste in his mouth that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He takes the glass of water he offered to Seraphina and drinks it himself.

She looks into his eyes, and Graves lets her. Tries to show her that he means it, because there are words at the tip of his tongue that he would not forgive himself for if he said them out loud.

“Explain one last thing to me,” she breaks the silence hanging between them, resignation apparent in her tone. Graves signs for her to go on.

“Is he worth it?”

It’s not the question he expected, Graves has to admit, but he does not show his surprise. He waits for a second, though he doesn’t have to think— he knows it deep in his chest, in his fingertips, in the roots of his teeth. The answer sits everywhere.

“Yes.”

She nods in acknowledgement but not in understanding, and looks anywhere but at him. Her knuckles quietly rap against the table top.

“Alright, then.”

Seraphina turns to leave, but before she can step back into the unlit hallway her eyes meet Graves’ one last time, almost apologetic.

“Don’t be a stranger, Percival,” she adds, and then she’s gone, leaving the air blurred for a second, stirring up flecks of dust.

When Graves closes the door, slowly, lost in thoughts of what he could have said but selfishly relieved he was not asked to, it feels like closing a book after reading the last page and the world stays still for a minute, suspended in time. He gets stuck staring at the dark wood of his front door and tries not to regret what just happened.

 _It’s better this way_ , he tells himself and the voice of Seraphina still echoing in his mind. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it.

When he steps back into the living room and sits back down with a huff of breath, Graves looks over at Credence, settled down slightly after Seraphina’s departure. His hair is still mussed from the storm outside, falling into his eyes.

“Are you doing alright, Credence?” he asks when he sees the slight tremor to his hands holding on tight to the book. Graves knows what happened in that subway station, though he has never heard it from Credence’s lips; only Goldstein’s whispers, stacks of files brought to his hospital bed before his infamous retirement, and detached rationalisations from Seraphina herself — the latter becoming the demise of everyone involved, in the end.

But he knows Credence is strong, too, when he lets his book fall into the gap between the couch cushions, leans over and simply kisses him in reply, forceful and deep until the trembling is gone. Graves tries to pour comfort into it, into his hand reaching up to hold onto Credence’s neck, and gets lost in the closeness for a moment, pushing everything outside these four walls towards the far back of his mind, hidden in nooks and crannies that he wishes he could seal up and smooth over.

When Credence moves back an inch he looks into Graves’ eyes, beginnings of a smile spreading on his lips.

“Now I am,” he says, and Graves’ heart flutters, then crawls into his throat with something too much for his chest to handle. He thinks of what Seraphina had said at the end, and he swears he can hear his mother turn in her grave.

 _Love_ , he remembers her saying, _only gets in the way_. There was a warning sloppily concealed in her wise voice. If he had dared he would have almost laughed at her back then, seventeen and clueless. He’d been raised well: to him there was only ever loyalty, to the family, to the magic, to the government, but love— it was dangerous, powerful enough to shatter dynasties, bloodlines, history. He’d almost laughed back then, but his mother’s face had remained steel.

Graves looks at Credence and the healthy blush returning to his cheeks, and twenty-five years later he understands what she meant, and that she was wrong.

 

* * *

 

The storm is still strong outside when they’re lying in bed that night, raindrops pelting against the windowpanes but not quite drowning out Graves’ nagging thoughts of escape, of rows of houses suffocating him when he’s walking down the street and the one wall in his house where once a closet used to be mocking him everytime he looks at it.

“You ever think about leaving this city?” he murmurs into the dead of night, illuminated only by a fleck of light hovering calmly above them. A thin layer of sleepiness has placed itself over everything like dust.

Credence hums and thinks for a second, his fingers dancing across the tattoo on Graves’ hip, not teasing, simply a habit he picked up.

 _When did you get that?_ Graves can still hear him asking the first time he saw it. That was even before it began, what they have now: casually undressing had still been new, then, exciting in a tentative way. Not quite meaningless, but laden with suggestion. Credence had stared, wide-eyed before he caught himself and put on a mask of cool curiosity.

So Graves had told him the story of Seraphina’s dare, the one she lost fair and square, and the weak attempt at hiding her shock when Graves showed it to her a week later. Seeing the light shine bright in Credence’s eyes afterwards alone was worth it.

Now he’s tracing the lines of ink from memory, looking off into the middle-distance. His hair feels silky where Graves’ fingers comb through it.

“I’ve never left before,” Credence says, his voice slightly raspy from disuse. “I don’t really know anything else.”

He raises his head from where it rested on Graves’ shoulder, eyebrows pulled up in surprise. “You want to leave New York?”

Graves stalls.

“I don’t know,” he says, huffing out a breath and looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve been thinking about it. It could be nice.”

It really could be, he thinks. It might be a disaster, a voice inside reminds him, but Graves tunes it out.

“A change of scenery,” he adds, mumbles it more to himself, and he doesn’t say that the walls are caving in on him but he gets the feeling Credence knows anyway.

They stay silent for a while, only listening to the rain and howling wind, Graves staring at the opposite wall as if trying to find an answer there.

Credence raises his head after some time to meet his gaze. Then, after a beat:

“Alright,” he says, lips spreading into the widest of smiles, and Graves’ heart skips another beat. He leans in for a kiss and then two, breathless with glee filling his chest, and he has to remind himself that he’s not a damn teenager anymore, he doesn’t get _frenzied_ , but Merlin knows for just this moment he doesn’t care: there’s only Credence next to him, looking exactly like he feels, laughter bubbling over.

Graves hides his face in the space between Credence’s shoulder and neck, wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him so close he can barely breathe.

“Where do you want to go?” Graves asks, but he can almost hear Credence’s bewilderment with endless choice in his answering silence afterwards. Graves presses a kiss to his nose and adds, “you don’t have to think about it right now, it’s alright.”

Still, Credence smiles down at him and says quietly, “I’d like to be close to water, I think. I’ve always liked the river.”

There’s still a trace of something like guilt in his voice that Graves worries is never going to disappear, guilt for having wishes and dreams and finding pleasure in the things he didn’t have before. Credence breaks their eye contact and lays his head back on Graves’ outstretched arm, curling up close.

“There’s a small magical village south of Buffalo,” Graves says, mentally skimming through what he remembers of the Atlas of Magical Settlements that’s buried somewhere in his old office. “It’s by the lake, and the Niagara Falls aren’t too far away. They’re beautiful. I think you might like it there.”

Another brush of lips against Credence’s temple to soothe; he leaves the unsaid question hanging in the air for Credence to pick up when he’s ready.

“Have I ever told you about that case I once had up there?” he asks with a quiet chuckle, knowing he hasn’t but craving to see the curiosity light up in Credence’s eyes as he looks back up and shakes his head.

“It was a while ago, and it’s not a grand story by any means,” he starts, “but a bureaucratic nightmare, with the Canadian ministry — fine Aurors, some of the best I’ve worked with, but my office almost spilled over with paperwork later. And I mean that literally,” he adds with a pointed look at Credence.

“There was a swarm of merpeople living in the river downstream, and a colony of faeries behind one of the falls. One day an owl bursts into our office, with a letter informing us that there’s a low-grade war going on between them. Usually we would send a magizoologist like Scamander to take care of it, but we had to track down and Obliviate about two hundred no-majs in the end.”

He shudders when he remembers the unfamiliar exhaustion coming over him that day.

“At the time it had everyone in the department going mad,” he says, and Credence actually laughs as if he’s seeing it, and Graves feels it radiate through his whole body.

“You can’t even begin to imagine the extent of it,” Graves adds, shaking his head still in disbelief. “The merpeople moved on to live in the lake, but there’s still some of the faeries living at the fall. I’m not exactly sure if they’d like to see me again, but we could go there, if you like,” he mutters, lowering his voice just a bit.

Credence suppresses a yawn but says in the same breath, “that would be nice,” voice hoarse and sleepy.

Graves doesn’t remember falling asleep. His dreams are covered under a layer of dust when he wakes.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later they’re packing their bags and getting ready to leave in the morning, barely suppressed grins on both their faces. Credence said his goodbyes the day before — a flurry of amicable tears and well-meant but unnecessary warnings from Goldstein’s side, her blonde curls shaking in time with her trembling hands.

“We won’t be gone forever, you know,” Graves had reminded her, but she ignored him, and he couldn’t bring himself to be offended. He’s grateful that Credence has women in his life that prove the presumed normalcy of his experiences wrong; even Graves knows there are few people out there more protective than Tina, or more gentle and lovingly fierce than Queenie.

The only time he let his guard down around her was to silently tell her exactly that; they’d been almost alone, Kowalski was off showing Credence how to knead bread in ten different ways, and she’d halted mid-cooking to stare at him, first bewildered then thankful, and he only smiled at her across the room before putting each undone mental block of brick firmly back in place around his mind. If there is anyone out in the world more deserving of knowing her than Credence, he doesn’t want to know of that person’s fate.

They’re taking the train to Buffalo, after Graves reluctantly admitting that he doesn’t want to try to Apparate on a distance like that, and Credence pointedly not caring, because he’ll ‘watch the landscape,’ as he says. It’s a waste of time, Graves thinks, before he remembers he can’t think of many things better to do than to watch Credence looking outside the window of a dreary no-maj train car. He packs another book he knows he won’t touch, just in case.

It’s a strange feeling, preparing to leave. It’s not permanent yet; more of a trial run, safe for both of them. Still, there is something in the air, something new, something he doesn’t yet know how to deal with. Novel in the way that for the first time he’s not sure if he wants to come back at all.

Graves looks over their things one last time, then turns off the light with a snap of his fingers and walks over to the bathroom doorway, only to selfishly watch as Credence gets ready for bed.

Credence meets his eyes in the mirror’s reflection, and instead of feeling nothing but dread at seeing his own face, Graves focuses on the lines of Credence’s naked shoulders and high cheekbones. He saunters over, drawn towards the graceful body as if pulled by a string, wraps his arms around a waist that’s not quite as skinny as it used to be. He runs his fingers across the expanse of belly and still slightly protruding ribs.

He thinks of the burn in his chest the first time Credence allowed him to touch, to slip his shirt off his shoulder and press kisses to every inch of newly-revealed skin and faded scar, to unravel everything he could; now it has turned into something deeper, something less tangible, something so close to his core he wouldn’t know where to look to get to it.

“Get away from me, old man,” Credence mutters with as much of a smirk on his lips as the toothbrush allows, and the earth shifts around them again. Graves looks at Credence through their reflection, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck and pointedly not letting go of his waist, and _yes_ , he thinks, an answer to a question he doesn’t know the words to. This is it, somehow.

 

* * *

 

Graves ends up watching the landscape himself, whenever his gaze drifts away from Credence across the train seat. The further they get and the less of civilization he sees, the more the pressure on his chest lifts, until he almost has to gasp for fresh air.

The hours don’t feel like hours, more like a timeless trance, both of them looking at each other, then outside the window, both thinking the same thing without having to put it into words. It’s preposterous, uprooting their lives in the blink of an eye, but the truth is: this is the first time in a while that Graves feels alive without Credence’s hands on his skin.

The commotion of people at the station is almost a shock when they arrive after hours of silence in a nearly abandoned carriage. Graves tries to measure his steps but ends up hurrying outside the entrance hall, only stops to turn around once he finds a hidden corner just off the plaza. Credence only raises an eyebrow at him when he catches up, but says nothing.

“Got everything?” Graves checks again. When Credence nods he takes his hand and they spin out of existence.

The pressure fades away and they’re left standing in the middle of an unexpectedly busy street — busy in that there are people strolling around at all. The few groups on the sidewalk barely bother to look in their direction. At the sight before them, Credence next to him sucks in a breath that Graves himself felt bubble up in his throat.

The hotel towers over them and every other building like a giant, elegant in its exterior and even more so inside, Graves knows. He quickly taps Credence’s chin to make him aware that his lips are still parted in awe.

“I can feel—” Credence starts, visibly struggling to find words and reaching out his hand as if to look whether it’s starting to rain.

“Magic,” Graves finishes for him, smirk widening into a smile, and walks them to the hotel’s front door.

This hasn’t changed much; the walls are still lined with dark blue tapestries, shimmering in the sun, and the decorative wood panels are still white as bone.

“One room, double bed, please,” he tells the young witch at the reception, who is blushing and trying not to stare. Graves knows she knows who he is but ignores it, only tightens his hold on Credence’s hand behind the counter so the girl doesn’t see. Credence brushes his thumb over the back of Graves’ hand.

“With a view, if that’s possible,” he adds, and the girl nods frantically. She gives him the key for their room and calls him by his name and Graves pretends not to notice. He leads Credence away by the small of his back and kisses him up against the wall in an empty stairwell.

The view really is incredible, the lake spreading out wide like the expanse of the sea, and Graves ends up unpacking both their bags with Credence glued to where he’s leaning on the window sill.

“Is that lake magical?” he asks after a while, just as Graves is cramming his sweaters into a drawer.

“Everything is, in a way,” he says, pushing the drawer shut with a frustrated huff, then walks up to the open window, close behind Credence, and takes in the view himself.

“Magic can be found anywhere, especially in nature as old as this.”

Credence nods and lets his eyes keep wandering across the lake. Graves does the same, listening to a flock of birds and Credence’s quiet breathing. Calm settles in his chest, everywhere. He tells himself to be reasonable, to think some more, but deep down he already knows the answer to whether he wants to stay or not.

 

* * *

 

The village Graves remembers has grown into a modest town since he’d last visited the area, the hotel now joined by a bookstore on one side and a shop full of sweets on the other, rows of houses spreading out further than before. People roam around in clothes slightly different from New York, some accompanied by creatures even Graves hasn’t seen before; storefronts are colourful, some pastel, some bright. The main street of wizarding New York doesn’t quite pale in comparison, but it’s a close thing. The familiar scent of magic hangs in the air but doesn’t suffocate; a feeling spreads in Graves’ gut that for once doesn’t make him want to curl in on himself.

They decide to rest near the shore for a while before going anywhere else. Credence reads his new book on history of the area, a parting gift from Scamander and Goldstein, and soaks up the sun, while Graves soaks up the other’s presence and lets the rough sand trickle through the gaps between his fingers.

It’s early afternoon by the time Credence shuts his book and Graves feels like he won’t lose an arm during Apparition, despite the trip earlier going much more smoothly than secretly feared. He takes Credence by his hand, and the lake before them spins away; the sound of gentle waves washing up against the shore turns first into nothingness, then into an angry river streaming down the edges of a cliff.

He doesn’t stumble but Credence’s grip on his hand still tightens when the blur of traveling recedes. Credence breathes a quiet gasp, then goes still, and Graves tears his gaze away from his face; blinded by the sun on the water, he blinks until his tired eyes don’t burn, and simply stays where he is next to Credence, not letting go of his hand.

Graves doesn’t mention how the water crashing down reminds him of what he knows about the force that used to live inside Credence; only watches his eyes dart around the scene before them, lips parted in awe and turning into a disbelieving smile. Credence looks over and catches Graves staring, and his smile gets even wider, fierce and slightly dorky and as breathtaking as the ripple of the water and the sun in the sky.

Graves taps Credence on the shoulder to get his attention, and points down to a spot near where the fall meets the river. There’s a slight bit of movement down by a series of rocks: the flutter of a pair of wings, a sparkle in the air that could be mistaken for drops of water. The faery looks up at them and waves, then goes back into hiding behind the opening of a cliff.

Credence goes slack-jawed for a second, like he thinks he might be imagining it, but Graves only nods, hoping the pure wonder at every new piece of magic is never going to leave Credence’s eyes. There’s something about his pure curiosity that makes Graves try and look at things the same way: things he never questioned, never knew, never acknowledged as anything extraordinary. Everything is, for Credence, and the afterburn of the scent of magic is less sickening now than when he first stepped back into his home.

“That must have been a young one,” he says, pulling himself back into the present. “The older ones wouldn’t be waving at us.”

“But why wouldn’t they? Didn’t you resolve the conflict?” Credence asks, leaning over the railing to look down into the water, and Graves sighs.

“We did, but they’re tough to negotiate with. Merpeople are, too, but faeries are terribly proud. Stubborn, almost. Assumed we were choosing sides just by intervening.”

Credence nods, satisfied with the answer, and Graves rocks on his heels and pushes himself away from the cliff edge; closes his eyes for a minute to take in the dust of water on his skin and the foreign kind of silence, despite the water pelting down. In this darkness there is nothing else, no ghost hovering above his shoulder, no throbbing pain beneath the scar at his temple, the whispers silenced.

In a pathetic moment of clarity, he thinks that the constant stream might wash them both of their past, with its unrelenting, impartial kind of ferocity. He quickly shakes his head.

They stay to watch the dusk tint the sky a mix of blue and pink and amber, colours’ reflections playing a game with each other in the pools of Credence’s eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. He glances back towards Graves every once in awhile, eyelids heavy with a hint of something wanton, or just fatigue, but too enraptured with the falls to admit it.

Graves breathes in the cool air. The tremor in his hand comes to a stop. Calm spreads.

 

* * *

 

Graves tears off his scarf and lets himself sink into the plush mattress first thing once they’re back at the hotel, rolling his head to get rid of the kinks in his neck.

“Did you like it?” he asks, even though it was obvious in everything Credence did that day. Still is, with Credence’s smile persisting, lighting up the whole room without even realizing. Graves didn’t exactly expect an elaborate answer, but when Credence lets his coat fall to the ground and stalks straight over in only a few wide steps, he forgets about the question altogether.

Then, before Graves has the chance to take in anything else: a knee settling on either side of his thighs, a hand against his chest, hungry lips pressing against his.

“Yes,” Credence whispers into his ear, kisses the side of his cheek. “Thank you.”

The huffs of air against Graves’ skin send  shivers down his whole body. This Credence, graceful and effortlessly energetic, and so invigorating his heart skips a beat, makes a slow flame curl in Graves’ stomach every time his eyes turn dark. Credence knows it, too.

“Where’s this coming from?” he asks with as much self-composure as he can muster up, lets the corner of his mouth perk up, mirrors Credence’s palm on the back of his head. His fingertips disappear in Credence’s still wind-swept curls.

The only reply he gets is a demonstrative jerk of his hips.

He watches the light pink flush on his pale neck creep higher and higher. Graves searches for trust in Credence’s wide-open eyes; when he finds it his hands trail down his back, teasing just a bit, then to the backs of his thighs to flip them over.

They exhale a sharp breath in unison. Then, suddenly, their hips line up so _perfectly_ that Credence lets out a surprised groan, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks before he looks back up; Graves sees in his parted lips and wide eyes the same heat he feels in his core. Strong hands grab onto the back of his shirt, the waistband of his trousers, not frantic but simply holding on.

Credence has taken root in his chest, climbing up and down his spine and blooming around his ribcage, Graves realizes again, a thought so prevalent it shouldn’t be surprising anymore — and yet, it hits him every time like running into a wall of brick, whenever Credence looks up at him the way he does, all fear dissolved and almost forgotten. It makes Graves forget, too.

All thought leaves him when Credence starts nibbling at the spot on his neck where he can feel his pulse speed up, then appears back in his field of vision with an expression on his lips that’s half wicked smirk and half gentle warmth. Graves smiles back and props himself up on his elbows for a kiss, shivers ever so slightly when Credence puts his hands on the sides of his waist.

The last rays of the sunset filter through the window in abstract lines on Credence’s face; they’re reflected in his eyes, draw shadows on his skin.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?” he mutters against Credence’s jaw, swears only to see his eyes instinctively dart up. Smiles so wide that the corners of his eyes crinkle, because he knows Credence likes it.

One last kiss on his mouth, and then: a trail left down his neck, his collarbones, his shirt rumpled up to find the centre of his chest. Graves buries his face in the soft skin of his stomach, an interlude of a different kind of intimacy, one that neither of them ever explain, or want to explain. It might be his favourite spot to be, right after getting completely lost in the darkness of Credence’s eyes: listening to his heartbeat, feeling the warmth emanating, being _so close_. Credence’s fingers brush through his hair, and Graves can’t find it in himself to complain about the mess.

Credence is less patient than him, his fingers gently starting to tug him back up, like a reminder that this was _going somewhere_. Graves smirks in response, lines their bodies back up against each other, watches as Credence bites his lip to suppress another sound. Graves bends down to nibble at his bottom lip to tease; revels in the swollen redness he finds afterwards.

Credence bucks his hips as if in retaliation, and it’s Graves’ turn to groan quietly as the blood returns to where it had almost left again.

It’s a lazy shift of body against body, one hand at the side of Credence’s head and the other brushing through his hair, lazy in the way that neither of them makes a move to pick up speed or frantically touch, in the way their kisses can’t quite be called kisses.

He bumps their noses together, observes as the seemingly ever-present slim lines of worry disappear from Credence’s face.

“Do you want to stay?” he mutters, knowing this isn’t the right time to ask but already seeing his own answer mirrored in the depths of Credence’s eyes. They’ll talk more tomorrow; for now he can’t help but bring it up.

“Yes,” he breathes back against Graves’ mouth, and the world shifts, just like that.

Graves lets himself sink into the sensation and slowly rolls his hips, lets Credence dig the heel of his foot into the backs of his thighs, until Credence’s eyes fall shut and he doesn’t hold back his gasps any longer.

 

* * *

 

They end up staying for a couple more days. Only come back to New York to pack up the rest of the life they left behind, old books and clothes and things Graves didn’t miss once while they were gone, and fit it all into one suitcase, courtesy of Scamander.

Graves doesn’t breathe until New York is nothing but another spot on the horizon. He knows Credence does the same.

It doesn’t take long until they find a small house for sale on the outskirts of town, right by the lakeside. The kitchen is small and the paint chapped, but the sunlight streams through the dirty windowpanes like a sign, and when Graves sees Credence’s eyes light up he figures it’s nothing a few spells can’t fix.

If anyone had come up to him two years ago saying he’d be where he is right now, he thinks he might have had them fired for their sheer incompetence; but when he watches Credence transfigure a mattress into a bed big enough for both of them, wand hand steady and incantation flowing from his lips as if he’d been doing it his entire life, Graves nearly forgets about everything else.

 

* * *

 

He’s standing on the small back porch. It’s a warm night just turning into summer; a plant next to him tries to slowly curl its dark blue leaves around his hand. It recoils when he shakes them off. There are cicadas chirping a little ways away, a fish splashing to the surface every once in awhile, when the screen door behind him creaks open.

The moon’s reflection in the lake throws shadows and abstract lights onto Credence’s face, and he comes up to wind his arms around Graves’ body. He rests his chin on Graves’ shoulder and huffs when the plant tries the same thing with him.

Graves watches as the clouds up in the sky slowly move in front of the moon, only some stray stars shining through.

Credence presses a kiss to the back of his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> i was about to write a scene where graves is shirtlessly renovating a house, but then i remembered he’s a wizard and that i need to get a hold of myself. i did want to leave you with that image in your heads, though
> 
> kudos and comments are very much appreciated, if you like ♥ i have a [sideblog](http://creadences.tumblr.com) too. all the continuing support on my other fics really _really_ means the world to me, i can't tell you enough!! :)


End file.
